


And TARDIS Makes Three

by Fionnabair



Series: The TARDIS is a shipper [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Crack, Evil Overlord's Handbook, M/M, Mpreg, The TARDIS is a shipper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:29:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionnabair/pseuds/Fionnabair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s like living with your mother-in-law”[1] A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/434565">RTFM</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And TARDIS Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

> Pure crack. I’m really really really sorry. But apparently not sorry enough not to post it - or indeed, repost it here. Beta’d as usual by m31andy. 
> 
> [1] The author would like to make it clear that it’s not like living with her mother-in-law who is a wonderful person.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Doctor Who is copyright BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

“I’m telling you, it’s like living with your mother-in-law!” he screamed.   
  
The Doctor ignored the outburst. It was a familiar occurrence in the TARDIS these days. The Master bursting into tears was not, however.  
  
“I can’t stand it anymore!” he wept and buried his face in the Doctor’s shoulder.  
  
The Doctor was shocked. “There, there,” he said awkwardly, patting the Master, which just made him sob even more hysterically.  
  
“And my food tastes funny!” came the muffled wail.   
  
“Supplements,” said the Doctor wisely. “She just wants to keep you healthy for when…”  
  
“DON’T SAY IT!” wailed the Master. “I’m not cut out for motherhood! What was so wrong about Looms anyway?”  
  
The Doctor was aware that his favourite suit was being soaked, crumpled and yes – there it was – snotted. The Master started hiccoughing.   
  
“Now stop this,” the Doctor said. “It’s not doing you any good at all.” He felt in a pocket and produced a handkerchief. “Blow your nose, dry your eyes and I’ll have a word with her.”  
  
The Master pulled away and took the hanky. His eyes were red and swollen, but he mopped them up, blew his nose loudly and handed the hanky back to the Doctor, who received it dubiously.  
  
“Sit down and have a nice cup of tea,” soothed the Doctor. “And a biscuit.”  
  
“Bet we’re out of Hob Nobs,” muttered the Master.  
  
The Doctor rummaged in a cupboard. “There we are,” he said triumphantly. “Hob Nobs – chocolate ones -  _and_  Jammy Dodgers. I’ll just go and talk to the TARDIS and see what I can do about the rest.”  
  
The Master barely noticed as he reached for the packet of Hob Nobs and tore it open. The Doctor left the room quickly, grateful for the distraction, even if it was costing him a small fortune in trips to the supermarket.   
  
He came back five minutes later, looking rather flustered. In the kitchen, the Master was humming happily as crumbs indicated that he had devoured the whole packet and was now starting on the Jammy Dodgers.   
  
“I… uh… did you eat  _all_  the Hob Nobs?” demanded the Doctor.  
  
“Yes, I did,” said the Master smugly. “I’m evil. What did you expect?” Chocolate always cheered him up.  
  
“Well, I suppose you’re going to need it,” said the Doctor rather bitterly. Chocolate Hob Nobs were his favourite too. “The TARDIS is very happy. She says you’re a month gone. Congratulations, you’re eating for two.”  
  
There was a crash as the Master dropped his mug and started wailing again.   
  
The Doctor rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long eight months.   
  
*****  
  
Things had changed in the TARDIS. The Master certainly seemed to appreciate the increased comfort as his old camp bed turned into a huge king size with extra pillows and all brown disappeared from the room. He wasn’t sure about the pastels, but it seemed a small price to pay for the good night’s sleep, especially as it turned out that the Doctor was an inveterate snuggler. Although they were both leanly built, the old bed just wasn’t big enough.   
  
The Master had suggested that the Doctor could return to his own room after they did the dread deed, but the Doctor just curled in closer and said “I don’t want you to think I’m just using you for sex.”  
  
The Master knew he wasn’t. There was the Doctor’s snuggle gratification too. He just wished the other Time Lord didn’t snore so much.   
  
The Doctor wasn’t so sure. Bringing the Master a cup of tea in bed each morning was a small price to pay for relative domestic peace, but he was getting tired of traipsing through time and space because the Master “had a craving and it’s all your fault”. The Master’s lower lip would wobble – and the sheer fact that the  _Master_  was pouting pathetically was almost enough to make him spontaneously regenerate – and the TARDIS would change her hum to a warning and give him static shocks until he gave in.  
  
So he went to the ends of the universe, battled fearsome monsters, stood in endless checkout queues and returned, triumphant, with his prizes, only for the Master to sniff and reject his offering.   
  
It took him a month – and the Master announcing he had a craving for coal - before he realised that the Master was just doing it to annoy him. Worse, that the TARDIS was letting him do it. Though he did occasionally wonder where that bag of coal had disappeared to.  
  
Grumpily he wondered what he’d done to be the villain of the piece. Certainly, there’d been the double genocide, which hadn’t been a good thing. There’s been a lot of bizarre time travel that had taken its toll on the TARDIS. There’d been some redecorations that she hadn’t liked, but the Master had chained her up – maybe she had liked that? There had, of course, been his legendary insensitivity to the needs, emotional and other, of his companions, a situation exemplified by their tendency to run off with some man they’d only just met – or not even met yet, in the case of Martha. And, in his most private thoughts, he admitted that some of his wardrobe choices had been a bit… naïve. But fair was fair – so had some of the Master’s.   
  
It must be the baby. The TARDIS was broody and only cosseted her former captor because he was pregnant. That was it. She couldn’t possibly have a grudge against the Doctor, could she?  
  
Still, five months gone, four to go. He could survive it.   
  
A crash and wail alerted him to yet another crisis. He ran to the Master’s room and found half his clothes scattered on the floor and a furious Time Lord confronting him.   
  
“It doesn’t fit!” screamed the Master, pointing at his leather jacket – technically the Doctor’s and he thought he’d looked good in it, despite his ears at the time. “It won’t fasten any more!”  
  
The Master was right. Five months into the pregnancy had changed his figure and the jacket wouldn’t button.   
  
“I was an athlete!” screamed the Master. “I won the league at rugby!”  
  
The Doctor couldn’t help himself. “No, you didn’t. You just used mind control to con people into believing that you did.”  
  
The Master’s eyes narrowed. “At least I had a body that was convincing. The most I could have persuaded humans to believe about yours was that you’d been a pole in the pole vault.”  
  
The Doctor really wasn’t surprised when he found himself locked out of the Master’s bedroom that night.   
  
*****  
  
They eventually reached a semi-civilised détente – mainly due to the Master’s hormone levels settling. The regular cry of “WHAT WAS SO WRONG ABOUT LOOMS?” settled down to no more than once or twice a day. The Doctor nearly cheered the day he found the Master painstakingly trying to build a bomb out of foodstuffs and the argument that ensued was so much like the old days that they both wound up much happier.   
  
They even started watching TV together – like an old married couple, the Doctor thought for a brief moment before banishing it from his mind. That was one thought he didn’t want the Master to pick up on.   
  
They alternated on film choice, which meant the Doctor saw  _Flash Gordon_  a lot.   
  
“See?” said the Master one night. “He did it properly. Goatee, random destruction, manic laughter, reign of terror. Even taking his pick among his captives.”  
  
“You’re not telling me you had Lucy washed and sent to your cabin?” asked the Doctor. “I couldn’t see her standing for that, even after she went mad.”  
  
“Oh, not  _Lucy_ ,” purred the Master. “But I do have a bit of a thing for chains.”  
  
The Doctor turned back to the screen. “I don’t want to know,” he said. “Anyway, Ming just lost. Again.”  
  
The Master heaved a wistful sigh at the closing image.   
  
The TARDIS had a huge collection of Earth sci-fi films (“She told me it was a scientific study,” said the Doctor, trying to keep a straight face) which they watched together, bitching about physics and accuracy. Although the Master did blanch and flee the room during one of the Doctor’s favourites.   
  
Maybe, the Doctor thought,  _Alien_  wasn’t the best choice for a pregnant being.   
  
*****  
  
There were still bad patches. The Master hadn’t taken kindly to piles, or to other changes to his body. He complained about the fact that he couldn’t find decent tailoring in his size and the Doctor had hidden when the TARDIS had proudly produced a range of flowery maternity wear. Eventually, the Master was reduced to t-shirts and extra-large jogging bottoms, which he insisted on having in black.   
  
But the fact was that somewhere along the line, fury and embarrassment had changed to resignation, which in turn had become anticipation.   
  
The Doctor planned long and educational trips. The Master drew up a detailed education plan for the child including, the Doctor was amused to note, a timetable.  
  
“Age 15. Teenage rebellion. Take the Doctor prisoner, torture him horribly and try to overthrow the Master?” he asked.   
  
“’S traditional. It won’t succeed, but it needs to learn,” said the Master affrontedly.   
  
“You do realise any child of ours will probably rebel by becoming an accountant?” was the response.   
  
They looked at each other in horror.   
  
*****  
  
Inevitably the day came.   
  
The Master kicked the Doctor out of bed at about 4am and started swearing. Five hours and many cups of tea later (“you’ve got to boil water, it’s traditional”), they found themselves in the main control room of the TARDIS, the Master resting on a chaise longue that had thoughtfully appeared.   
  
“Has the TARDIS actually told you how the baby’s coming out?” asked the Master. He stopped and winced as another contraction gripped him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m lacking certain orifices. And I’m really hoping it doesn’t involve any I already have.”  
  
The Doctor stopped dead in his tracks. “No, she didn’t. I thought she told you.”  
  
“Why the hell would she tell me?” asked the Master. “I’m only the baby incubator whose current regeneration is at risk.”  
  
He stopped again for another contraction.  
  
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH LOOMS?” he yelled again to the room. “Ask the stupid bitch. The contractions are getting closer together and there’s nowhere to push TO!”  
  
In response, the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver.   
  
“What’s THAT for?” yelled the Master.   
  
“Emergency caesarean,” said the Doctor tersely as he pulled up the Master’s shirt.  
  
“You’re not cutting me open! I’m still conscious!”  
  
There was a warning buzz from the TARDIS and the Doctor looked over at the console. A screen was flashing urgently.   
  
“Hang on,” he said. “She’s telling me something.”  
  
He dashed over to the screen and read it carefully.   
  
“It’s okay,” he said, coming back. “She says she’s sorting it.”  
  
“Did she say HOW? It hurts like mad.”  
  
“Just trust the old girl,” said the Doctor soothingly. “She’ll come back through, she always does.”  
  
Nonetheless, it was another hour, with the Master swearing in several languages and gripping the Doctor’s hand before there was a flash and a messy bundle landed on the Master’s stomach.   
  
The Doctor picked it up hurriedly as the Master collapsed back against his pillows.   
  
He wiped the blood and mucus off the baby’s face and reached for a towel.  
  
“What?” said the Master feebly.   
  
The Doctor looked down at the child which opened its eyes, looked upwards and promptly started crying. He gently handed the bundle over to the Master.   
  
“It’s a boy,” he said. “Blue eyes.”  
  
The Master took the baby and studied it intently for a moment.   
  
“Looks okay,” he finally said. “How did he…”  
  
“Get out? Let me check.”  
  
The Doctor bounced off, curiously elated, and returned five minutes later. The Master was still looking at the baby suspiciously.   
  
“The TARDIS folded space and time so that the baby was beside you, not in you.”  
  
“Oh,” said the Master. “A cop out. Haven’t seen one of those before.”  
  
The Doctor grimaced.  
  
“But there’s good news,” he continued, leaning in beside the Master. “She’s upset by the whole organic procedure. It took her quite some time to work out how to do it precisely so that your innards didn’t come out with you.”  
  
He paused and looked at the Master’s face. “Sorry. But she says she had no idea organics were so tricky and I think she’s upset by the whole experience. She’s already started building a Loom for next time.”  
  
“There’s not going to be a next time.”  
  
“Of course there is. We don’t want this one growing up warped and alone, do we?”  
  
He tickled the baby’s face as the Master glared at him.  
  
“What should we call him?” the Doctor continued.   
  
The Master looked thoughtfully at the baby. “It’s traditional to name him after his father.”  
  
“We can’t have two Doctors. That would be ridiculous.”  
  
“No.” The Master looked up, his face radiating sincerity in a way that would have warned a less addled Doctor.   
  
“I meant, call him Jack.”  
  
As a thump indicated the Doctor had fainted, a happy – and evil – grin crossed the Master’s face.


End file.
